


I've clawed my way out of here before (but I keep on coming back)

by Anonymous



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Chloe Decker Needs A Hug, Demons, F/M, Gen, Hell, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Chloe Decker, Hurt/Comfort, Lucifer Morningstar (Lucifer TV) Needs A Hug, Mutual Pining, Poison, Post-Lucifer (TV) Season/Series 04, Post-Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:54:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Six months. He drags his hand across his face in disbelief, fingers rasping against his stubble. He's been gone for six months.Somehow it feels like no time at all and eternity simultaneously.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Comments: 29
Kudos: 183
Collections: Anonymous, Filii Hircus: WIP It Good





	1. Chapter 1

The passage of time is unpredictable in Hell, so when his feet touch Earth for the first time in what feels like centuries, the first thing he does is ask someone what day it is.

"Party too hard last night, mister?" The kid laughs at him, some ignorant teenager, and Lucifer has to squash the urge to administer swift and merciless punishment. This isn't a rebellious demon; this is just a snarky youth poking fun at him, and with good reason, no doubt. He knows his suit is an ashy mess, and hell only knows what kind of state his hair is in after all this time.

Nevertheless, he scowls at the kid a little more ferociously than necessary, and the smirk slides off the boy's face. "Something like that," Lucifer says. His voice is low and rough from disuse; since his return to Hell, his energies have been focused on punishing Dromos and his band of troublesome allies. There's been no real need for talking. "Quickly, now." He snaps his fingers impatiently.

The kid tells him, and whatever expression crosses Lucifer's face is enough to send the boy running. Lucifer doesn't even notice.

_Six months_. He drags his hand across his face in disbelief, fingers rasping against his stubble. He's been gone for six months. Somehow it feels like no time at all and eternity simultaneously. His heart beats erratically as a yawning pit opens in his stomach.

_Chloe_.

Is she still here in LA? Is she angry with him? Does she miss him? Or is she already over him, moved on, gotten a new partner at work, a new... someone, in her life?

The thought catches at him, takes the breath from his lungs. He needs to see her. He needs to _know_.

Judging by the small sliver of sun visible above the horizon and the barest glint of light from the brightest stars above, it's early evening; the Detective will surely be home by now.

_She can't know you're here_ , he tells himself as he ducks into a nearby alley. It would be cruel, to reveal himself and give her hope, when he knows he can't stay. He'll go and look, just to check on her. Just to make sure she's okay, that she's safe and happy and doing well without him.

With a quick glance around to make sure no one's watching, he allows his wings to unfold, and takes to the air.

He drops down near her apartment in seconds, landing in the shadow of some large, flowering tree, almost invisible in the deepening twilight. With a shrug, he folds his wings away, and then he steps soundlessly around the building until her window comes into view.

The lights are on and his heart catches in his throat at the thought of her being here, right here in front of him, _right now_. And she is. She _is._ She's sitting on the couch, impossibly real and impossibly beautiful, her hair in a loose, messy ponytail, her feet tucked up under her. Beatrice cuddles next to her. A book sits open on Chloe's lap, each of them with a hand on either side of the pages. Chloe's lips move; she's reading Beatrice a story, just as they've always done before bedtime.

His chest constricts and his vision blurs.

Hell, but he loves her _so much_. Her openness and vulnerability, her courage and intelligence and quick wit, her willingness to accept him into her life despite his strangeness. She had found a place in his heart, given him a place in hers, helped him find love and home and family after eons of loneliness.

_Family_. He blinks at the thought. But that's what they are, aren't they? People who choose to care for and protect and love each other - that's himself and the Detective, and Beatrice too. He would welcome a sticky-fingered hug from the little urchin right now - no flinching or shying away. He hasn't realized until this very moment how much he missed her, too - her trust and affection, her cleverness and intuition, so unusual for a child.

He doesn't know how long he stands there, watching them read together, smiling along with them as they occasionally laugh at some humorous passage. Chloe's arm curls around Beatrice's shoulders, her fingers absentmindedly stroking through the child's dark hair. Some distant part of him registers amazement that no one has called the police to report a strange man standing creepily in the dark outside of the building, but he's certainly not going to complain.

He watches as Chloe puts Trixie to bed. He watches as she pads, barefoot, into the kitchen and pours herself a glass of wine. He studies her face. She looks a little tired, a little drawn, but she doesn't look heartbroken or devastated. She looks... okay. Relief rushes over him. She's okay. She hasn't fallen apart. She's moving on with her life.

He ignores the small, bitter twist of pain that accompanies the thought. This is what he wanted, after all. This is why he went back to Hell - to keep her safe, to allow her to live a full and happy life.

The Detective lingers in the kitchen a little while longer, then leaves her empty wineglass on the counter and disappears upstairs. Lucifer's heart drops. He's not ready to leave her yet, not so soon, but if she's going to bed, there's no reason to stay.

There's a happy little lurch in his chest when she reappears, carrying a small stack of books and a notebook and pen. She settles back down on the couch, piling the books on the coffee table. She pulls one of them into her lap and opens it, then takes up the pen and opens the notebook to a page that's half-full of her messy handwriting.

The books vary in size and shape. Lucifer wonders where they came from, what they contain. From the way the Detective occasionally pauses her reading to jot down notes, it seems like she's doing research. For a case, possibly? Even with his superior, angelic eyesight, he can't make out the titles without getting closer, and he can't get closer without risking giving himself away.

Chloe eventually gets up and disappears again, apparently to the bathroom. Lucifer takes the opportunity to step closer and investigate the books, reading the titles off the visible covers.

_A History of Hell._

_The Origin of Satan._

A ripple of shock runs down his spine, his fingers tingling as his fists clench involuntarily. He takes an unsteady breath. Then another.

She's researching Hell - researching _him_. Why?

The notebook lays open on the coffee table. Even this close, the Detective's scrawl is barely legible, but he manages to make out a single sentence.

_We're going to save him._

A small movement in the corner of his eye alerts him to Chloe's return, and he steps away from the window just in time. She stifles a yawn as she sits back down, picking up where she left off in the book. He can only stare at her, utterly bewildered.

She's trying to save him from Hell. He's been gone six months, and she's spent that time trying to find a way to bring him home. He's suddenly taken by the sheer force of his love for her, this miraculous, defiant woman who refuses to accept his fate even after he's already given in to it willingly. It takes all of his self-control not to rush into the apartment, reveal himself to her, tell her he's home for good and hers to keep forever.

The coil of apprehension in his gut prevents him from doing anything so rash. He _can't_ leave Hell for good. Without their king, the demons will become defiant and rebellious again. They'll come to Earth again, and bring death and chaos with them.

He _can't_ come home. No matter how much the Detective wants him to.

With the sour taste of that truth in his mouth, Lucifer steps away from the window, away from his Detective, his family, his home. Once again, he shrugs his wings into existence. He's lingered here for far too long. It's time for him to go back.

Back to Hell.

One hard sweep of his wings and he's gone.


	2. Chapter 2

Lucifer spends the next few decades at war with himself. 

Between the never-ending rounds of torture (which no longer thrill and satisfy him the way they used to) and the squashing of a minor uprising here and there (because demons apparently _never_ learn, even after witnessing Dromos's gruesome fate), he ponders how to handle this situation with the Detective. She seems hellbent on bringing him home, and that knowledge lights up his heart like nothing else has in millennia, but it's simply not possible. Somehow, he has to persuade her to give up on him.

Knowing her as he does, it seems an impossible task.

Knowing _himself_ as he does, it seems an impossible task.

He finds himself on Earth again, much too soon. He's powerless against the pull of her devotion to him - _him_ , the Devil, a creature not even God could love. But _she_ can, and she _does_ , and knowing this, how can he ever stay away from her? How can she ever be free of him? She doesn't deserve to spend her life pining after him. She deserves to move on, find happiness. Somehow, he must convince her of that.

This time, he lands in silvery moonlight. The air is still and quiet, save for the soft shushing of the ocean nearby and the whisper of a cool breeze chilling his skin. There's sand under his feet and stars above his head. He doesn't need a watch to tell him that it's the middle of the night. The city sleeps, and he stands unseen at its edge, like a ghost. He shivers.

Then he spreads his wings, seeking his Detective.

***

He can't find her.

It's midday, and he should have left for Hell hours ago - Dad only knows what kind of mayhem is occurring during his absence - but _he can't find her_ , and in this moment, his fear of what that might mean outweighs his fear of any demonic rebellion.

She's not at home. Not at the precinct or Lux. Not at her mother's beach house, or Daniel's apartment, or Beatrice's school. Panic flutters in his chest, sizzling like electricity in his veins. By the time he reaches Linda's house, he's frantic; he stumbles as he lands in her backyard, falling to his knees, adding grass stains to the litany of damages inflicted upon his already-ruined suit.

He closes his eyes, presses his palms together, and calls Amenadiel.

Mere seconds pass before the back door of the house flies open and his brother strides into the yard, steps faltering as he takes in the sight of the Devil slumped on the ground.

"Luci!" Shock colors Amenadiel's voice. His hands grip Lucifer's arms, pulling him upright. Lucifer stands reluctantly, lightheaded, feeling like he might keel over again any moment. Amenadiel takes in the Devil's filthy appearance, the wild exhaustion in his eyes, and his expression turns fearful. "Luci, why are you here? What's going on? Is something wrong in Hell?"

Lucifer huffs incredulously at the ridiculousness of that question - it's Hell, there's always _something_ wrong - but right now he has more pressing concerns. "Chloe," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "I can't find her."

Amenadiel stills, his grasp on Lucifer's arms suddenly unbearably tight. "Why are you looking for Chloe?"

"She's trying to bring me home. I have to stop her," Lucifer says miserably. "I can't leave Hell. She needs to understand that. She needs to -" His words catch in his throat.

Amenadiel sighs, releasing his hold on Lucifer. "She needs to let go," he says quietly.

Lucifer only nods; he can't speak around the lump in his throat. Amenadiel gestures toward the house, his expression grave. "Luci, there's something you should see."

Dread settles like a stone in Lucifer's stomach.

***

Lucifer rests in the armchair in Linda's guest bedroom; he's been sitting here for hours, and shows no indication of getting up any time soon. The setting sun casts long shadows across the room; a stray sunbeam sets a blazing corona of light around the slight figure lying on the bed.

He's been sitting here for hours, leaving the room only long enough to take a shower and change into borrowed clothes. The black t-shirt and gray sweatpants are a far cry from his preferred three-piece suits, but they're clean and comfortable, and in all honesty, Amenadiel could have handed him a burlap sack and he would have thrown it on without complaint.

He's been sitting here for hours, and the Detective hasn't stirred once. If it weren't for the slight movement of her breathing, he'd think there was no life in her at all. Her pulse is too weak, her skin too pale, her face too gaunt. He's lost count of how many times he's lifted his hand to stroke her hair, touch her face, only to pull back, afraid that anything he does might make her condition even worse.

Amenadiel had left him here with the promise that Linda would be able to explain the situation better than he could. Lucifer hears him puttering around in the kitchen, tending to Charlie. His nephew's unintelligible babbling carries through the house (Lucifer will never understand how a creature so small can be capable of such volume). It's all so comfortably domestic, and the tiny guest bedroom with its strange occupants feels out of place, as though it exists in some other world entirely.

The front door opens, then closes; he hears Linda's voice. She and Amenadiel speak for a while, too quietly for him to discern any actual words. The front door opens and closes again, and then the door to the guest bedroom swings open silently.

"Lucifer," Linda says, and there's warmth in her voice despite the dire situation at hand. "Welcome back."

He's glad to see her, and surprises himself - and her - by standing up and pulling her into a brief hug. He'd missed her, and not just because of the dearth of decent therapists in Hell. "It's lovely to see you, Doctor," he says. "Unfortunately, I'm not back for good."

"I know. Amenadiel explained the situation. I asked him to take Charlie for a walk. There are some... _distressing_ things going on here, and I'd like to show you without scaring my son."

"Quite distressing, yes," Lucifer agrees. "The smell, for instance."

Linda tilts her head. "Amenadiel noticed it too. I can't smell anything. What do you smell, Lucifer?"

He's silent, absolutely still, every muscle tense; for just a moment, his eyes flash with fire. He nearly growls his response. " _Hell_." He gestures at Chloe, asleep on the bed. "She reeks of it."

Linda nods. "That's what Amenadiel said. Have you -" she hesitates, as if rethinking her question, then continues on anyway. "Have you tried touching her?"

His brow furrows. "No. She's sleeping. And she looks ill. I didn't want to disturb her. Why?"

Linda sighs. "You might want to cover your ears." Then she leans over the bed and places a hand on Chloe's shoulder.

The scream that tears itself from the Detective's throat sounds like it was drawn from the deepest pit of Hell. She curls in on herself, fists tucked up beneath her chin, knees pulled protectively to her chest. Her expression contorts in a rictus of fear, and all the while the sound continues, unceasing, until her face flushes red from lack of air and her fingernails leave deep, angry marks in her palms.

The screaming stops as abruptly as it began. Her body relaxes. Her skin shines with sweat.

Throughout the entire ordeal - which lasts only a few seconds and yet feels like an eternity - she never once wakes.

Lucifer's eyes burn steadily now, pure hellfire. The lamp on the nightstand flickers to life, lightbulb sparking. Linda places a placating hand on his arm, trying as best as she can to ignore the aura of malice that surrounds him like a dark cloud, the shrieking voice in her hindbrain insisting that she run, _run, get out now before it_ gets _you_ -

Chloe whimpers, as if she too can feel the Devil's fury, and instantly Lucifer snaps out of his dark reverie. The menacing cloud surrounding him vanishes, along with the fire in his eyes. Linda takes a deep, relieved breath.

Lucifer looks down at his Detective, his expression unreadable. His fingers ghost over the golden crown of her hair, almost, but not quite, touching. He sighs; his hand drops.

Then the Devil turns to the Doctor, covering her hand on his arm with his own. "Tell me everything you know."


	3. Chapter 3

For the third time this week, Chloe finds herself at the library after work.

Dan has Trixie for the weekend, and Chloe isn't going to waste valuable research time sitting around at home. LAPL boasts hundreds of books on demons, angels, heaven, hell - one of them must contain the knowledge necessary to procure Lucifer's freedom.

She carries an armful of books to an empty table and pulls out her notebook, pen poised above a blank page, ready to jot down anything that seemed the least bit helpful.

A few hours later, her phone vibrates. She ignores it.

A minute passes, and her phone vibrates again. She ignores it.

At the third vibration, she sighs, tossing down her pen and picking up the phone. She has three texts from Linda.

_Hey Chloe! Tribe night tonight?_

_Ella and Maze are up for it._

_It's Friday night - let's get a little wild ;)_

Chloe hastily texts back _I've got plans already, sorry - next time!_ and tucks her phone into her bag.

It vibrates again. She ignores it, picking up her pen and diving back into her books.

A shadow falls across the table; she looks up warily just as a timid voice says, "Excuse me, miss?"

A young man stands beside her chair, looking at her nervously - tall and lanky, with thick black glasses and a mess of curly red hair. An overstuffed backpack hangs across his shoulders, his hands tucked away into his pockets. He stands stiffly, as if unused to approaching strangers in public.

"Can I help you?" she asks.

He points at one of the books in her pile. "You have the only copy of _The Magic of Angels and Demons_ \- do you mind if I...?"

"Oh, of course. Sorry," she says, sliding it over to him.

"Thanks," he says, picking up the book and cradling it against his chest. But he doesn't walk away; instead, he stands there awkwardly, still looking at her.

"Was there something else?" she asks, trying - and probably failing - to keep the impatience out of her voice.

He gestures at her and the books on the table. "I - I've seen you here a lot lately," he says. "Looking at these books. Are you into demonology?"

She blinks at him, surprised (and a little suspicious) that anyone noticed her comings and goings from the library. "I'm just doing some research. Why?"

He hesitates. The part of her that never stops being a cop (not even when she's at home, or out with her friends, or researching Hell and the Devil in a library, apparently) picks up on the minute details that betray his emotional state - his chapped, bitten lower lip, his wide eyes, his knuckles, white from gripping the book so tightly. He looks like someone who's seen a ghost, she thinks. A ghost or... something else. Maybe - based on the book he requested and the question he asked - something demonic. Or angelic.

The back of her neck prickles. Maybe he knows something. Maybe he can help her.

She pats the chair beside her. "Sit," she offers. After a long, silent moment, he does, dropping his backpack to the floor with a thump, putting the book back on the pile in the middle of the table.

She leans toward him and speaks quietly. "Something happened to you, didn't it?"

He swallows, hard, and then nods, staring down at the smooth, worn surface of the table. She strains to hear his barely-audible response. “I - I think I saw a - a demon.”

Her mind whirls. Maze said demons come to earth by possessing the bodies of dead, doomed souls - they don't come up to Earth in their own physical forms (Maze herself being the single exception to the rule). What had this young man seen, really? An actual demon? A possessed body? Either option points to instability in Hell. Is Lucifer okay? Is he in trouble?

First things first, Decker, she chides herself. She slips into detective mode automatically, keeping her tone calm and professional. “What’s your name?”

”Aamon,” he answers, his voice a little stronger now. She rolls the name around in her head. For some reason, it seems oddly familiar. Maybe the name of one of Trixie's classmates? Not that it matters - there are more important things to discuss than the boy's name.

”I’m Chloe. Tell me, how long ago did this happen, Aamon?”

”About - about three weeks ago.” He shudders.

She gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay. We’ll figure this out.”

He takes a deep breath. “It was - I didn’t believe they were serious, you know? I thought they were just pretending.”

”Who, Aamon? What did they do?”

He looses a shaky laugh. “My roommate has these friends. They’re big into this occult stuff, you know? And I was interested. I’m an Anthropology major with a Religious Studies minor. I thought it would be educational to observe one of their meetings, so they let me join them.”

Her pulse quickens. A group of people who might have the knowledge she seeks - this could be her first real break since she began her research nearly a year ago. “So you went to a meeting.”

He nods, licking his lips nervously. “They did some - some chanting and drew some sigils on the floor and then there was - there was _something else_ in the room with us.”

His entire body shakes with the force of the memory; he squeezes his eyes shut, lower lip trembling. She grips his shoulder tightly. “Aamon, it’s okay. You’re not there. You’re at the library, and you’re safe.”

His answering laugh is bitter and short, almost a sob. “None of us are safe with things like that out there in the world.”

She remembers how she felt the first time she saw Lucifer’s devil face - the sheer terror that tore through her, the way her mind emptied itself of every thought, overrun by primal instincts screaming at her to run, get away, _now_. “I understand how you feel,” she says.

He finally looks up at her, and his eyes widen at her expression. “You’ve seen things, too,” he breathes.

She nods. “I have.”

He drops his head into his hands. “I can’t believe this. I never thought anyone would believe me - my friends all said I’m crazy -”

"You're not crazy," she says firmly. Inspiration hits her; she tears a sheet of paper from her notebook and scribbles Linda's name and office phone number onto it. "If you need help processing what you saw - coming to terms with it - this is the number for a therapist in Beverly Hills. Doctor Linda Martin. She's very good." She slides the paper across the table to him.

He picks it up with trembling hands. "This doctor - has she - has she seen things, too?"

"She has," Chloe assures him. "She won't think you're crazy. She'll be able to help."

"Thank you," he says softly. Some of the tension leaves his body; his shoulders relax and his hands stop shaking. He folds the paper up and carefully tucks it into his bag.

"Tell me, Aamon," Chloe says, "These people - are they having another meeting soon?"

He nods. "Tonight. But I'm not going," he says quickly. "I'm never going back there ever again."

"You don't have to. But, listen," she pulls her badge out of her pocket and flashes it at him. "I'm LAPD. If these people are doing something dangerous or illegal, we can stop them."

He raises his eyebrows, doubt - and fear - clearly written across his face.

"Just give me an address," Chloe urges. "We'll handle it."

He contemplates her for a moment, then sighs. "Okay." His tone says plainly that he thinks the LAPD won't be able to do anything. He writes down the address for her anyway, and a time - 10 pm. Then he stands up from the chair and picks up his bag. "I gotta go meet my study group."

"Have fun," Chloe says. "Everything will be okay, I promise. Call Doctor Martin, okay?"

He smiles at her. "I will. Thank you, Chloe." He turns and walks away, his step light, as if a heavy weight has been lifted from his soul. Chloe smiles at his retreating back. Then she hastily gathers up her pile of books, haphazardly reshelving them before rushing out of the library.

She has a meeting to prepare for, and the Devil to save.

***

The address Aamon gave her takes her to the Warehouse District, and to an old, abandoned building along the river. Shining her flashlight around the property, she sees evidence of extensive fire damage; she wonders how structurally sound the building is. Definitely a dangerous place for people to congregate with the intention of raising demons. Still, she finds a door ajar on the side of the building and slips through it without hesitation, into a dark, vast, open space.

She shines her flashlight in front of her, taking in the empty room. She sees no evidence of any occult activity or meeting, nothing to suggest the presence of anyone other than herself. She frowns; a chill runs down her spine. Something feels off about all of this.

_Trap!_ her instincts scream, far too late.

The blow to her head is quick and efficient; pain blossoms at the base of her skull, lights arcing across her vision from the force of the strike. She drops to her knees, dazed, the world swooping around her at strange angles. Her flashlight falls from her limp fingers; the bulb shatters, plunging her into darkness.

"Cuff her," a voice says gruffly; male, and older, from the sound of it. Hands grab at her; she tries to wriggle away, and instead finds rough, cracked concrete beneath her cheek. She must have fallen over without realizing it.

Something warm and sticky slides down the back of her neck. Someone twists her arms behind her back; she feels cold metal circling her wrists, too thick and heavy to be handcuffs. In a distant part of her mind, somewhere beyond the haze of pain, panic blooms. Someone removes her boots. More cold, heavy metal snaps shut around her ankles, squeezing the delicate bones painfully.

"Move her," the voice orders. She's picked up and slung like a sack of potatoes over someone's shoulder. They begin to walk, bouncing and jostling her with every step, making the pain bloom fresh across her skull. She moans; the sound seems to travel from a great distance away, fuzzy and muffled.

The minutes crawl past, and still they walk, deep into the heart of the building. Something glows up ahead; she sees the light puddling around the swiftly-moving feet of her captors. Now that she has a light source, she counts at least five pairs of feet, maybe more; their footsteps echo through the emptiness, making an exact count difficult. As the light comes closer, its brightness intensifying, her pain redoubles; she moans again, and the person carrying her gives her a rough shake, a silent warning against making any more noise.

They cross through a doorway and enter the room that seems to be the source of all the light. Blinking, trying to focus, Chloe sees dozens of crates and boxes lining the walls. A generator rumbles nearby, powering several impossibly bright, commercial-grade work lights. The lights are arranged in a circle, all pointing at the same spot in the center of the room. Her captors spread out, standing between the lights, keeping to the dark edges of the room; she can't make out any of their faces.

"Put her down," the voice instructs from behind her. Her captor deposits her gracelessly onto the hard floor in the center of the circle of lights; her right shoulder and hip take the impact, agony streaking lightning-hot through her body. She gasps, curling in on herself against the sudden onslaught of pain.

"None of that, now," the voice scolds her. Hands slip beneath her legs and shoulders, maneuvering her into a kneeling position. And then soft, thin fingers grip her jaw roughly, forcing her head up.

"Hello, Chloe," Aamon says, and her mind - so focused on her surroundings and her pain - comes to a stuttering halt.

"Aamon?" she gasps. The effort required to speak that single word sends her vision looping again. He giggles wildly, his fingers still squeezing her jaw, holding her steady until the world rights itself once again. All traces of his awkwardness and apprehension from the library are gone, replaced with a manic grin and a strange, hungry expression that sends ripples of fear through her.

Aamon. The name whispers through her mind, and suddenly she remembers a passage in one of the dozens of books she's read over the past year. _Aamon is one of the eight Princes of Hell, commanding forty legions, and having the head of a wolf or a raven..._

This entire thing - meeting him at the library, his story about the demon summoning, the next meeting coincidentally happening tonight - it's all been a setup. She fell right into it, so blinded by her desire to save Lucifer that she hadn't once stopped to consider how suspiciously convenient the circumstances were. She closes her eyes, nausea swooping low in her belly, and forces out her next words, heedless of the accompanying spike of pain in her head. "What do you want with me?"

"Isn't it obvious?" says the older man's voice. Aamon steps away from her, moving back a respectful distance, allowing the owner of the voice - clearly the leader of the group - to kneel in front of her. She doesn't recognize him - he has a stocky build, with salt-and-pepper hair, and a neatly trimmed beard to match. Is he possessing this body, or is it his own? For that matter, is Aamon's body his own, or borrowed? Are the people interspersed between the lights actually people, or are they demons, too? She has no way to tell, no way of knowing the true extent of this dire situation.

She can't find her voice to give the leader a response, but he doesn't need one. He reaches into a pocket and pulls out a vial, holding it up so she can see it clearly. She inhales sharply, sending another throb of pain through her head.

"Looks familiar, doesn't it?" he says softly.

It does. It looks, in fact, very much like the vial Kinley gave her. The vial containing a liquid that would subdue the Devil, so that the priest could banish him to Hell. Permanently.

The man - demon - rolls the tiny bottle between his fingers. "Of course, what the Vatican has is slightly different. This is something of my own invention. Not even the Devil himself knows it exists." His laugh is low and awful; the sound crawls across her skin, and she feels suddenly violated, _unclean_. He leans closer, clearly enjoying her discomfort. "Do you know," he continues, conversationally, as if this is a coffee date and not a demonic kidnapping, "This potion is the only way to send a still-living soul directly to Hell?"

There's no question about their intentions now. The taste of fear lies thick on her tongue.

Her captors converge on her from all sides as she attempts to leap to her feet, to escape this room and the certain doom that awaits her if she consumes that vile liquid. She knows her efforts are futile even before they slam her back down onto her knees.

The leader gestures at Aamon, and the demon prince comes forward once again, holding her head perfectly still in a vise-like grip, pinching her nose closed with one hand. She struggles, mouth clamped shut, furious tears welling in her eyes; her lungs ache for air. If she opens her mouth to breathe, her life iss over.

But she can't fight against her own body's desperate will to live. Her lips part as she draws in a deep, ragged breath; the leader empties the vial down her throat. Aamon clamps his hand over her mouth, preventing her from spitting out the potion; she chokes, and whimpers, and swallows. The liquid burns all the way down to her stomach.

Her captors withdraw; she falls to the floor, eyes squeezed shut, her body trembling. Hands quickly unlock the cuffs around her ankles and wrists. The generator shuts off, taking out her only light source. She hears their footsteps receding; they leave her there, alone, in the pitch-black room.

As her stomach clenches hotly, she weeps.

When her veins begin to burn, her tears turn to screams.

And when the burning reaches her heart, the all-encompassing darkness drags her down into oblivion.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter brought to you courtesy of matchstick_dolly’s WIP It Good challenge.

“Here’s what I know,” Linda begins, settling herself into an overstuffed armchair in the living room. By habit, Lucifer sits opposite her on the sofa, tensely perched on the edge of the cushion.

“We went out last night. Ella, Maze, and me,” Linda says. “We invited Chloe, but she claimed to already have plans.”

“What plans?” Lucifer asks immediately, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Who was she with?” _Who should I go after first,_ he means.

“We don’t know. Maze is out looking for information right now,” Linda reassures him.

He sighs, collapsing back against the cushions. “Very well. What next?”

“Around 9:30, we texted her again, and she said she was tired and going to bed.”

“Early night,” Lucifer comments.

Linda—who he sometimes thinks understands him better than anyone, even Maze, even the Detective—fixes him with a knowing expression and answers his unasked question. “Well, she’s not dating anyone, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“I think there are more important matters at hand than the Detective’s love life, Doctor,” Lucifer sniffs, but some small, tight knot in his chest eases slightly at her words anyway.

Linda raises an eyebrow at him, the corner of her mouth quirking up briefly before she carries on with her story. “When Maze got home after midnight, Chloe wasn’t there. So she tracked her phone and found her in an empty warehouse down by the river. Her car was still there, too. Maze brought her here, asking for my help.”

Her calm expression cracks, brow furrowing, her voice slightly raised as she continues. “Not that I have any idea what to do, because I'm still not that kind of doctor.” She huffs a strained laugh, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “But she started screaming the second I laid a hand on her, and Maze and Amenadiel both smelled Hell on her. Under the circumstances, it didn’t seem like a hospital was the best place to take her.”

“I suppose not,” Lucifer concurs. He leans forward again, perplexed. “But, Doctor, why did none of you think to contact me for—”

The front door opens, and Amenadiel comes in, a sleeping Charlie drooling on his shoulder. Maze follows immediately on his heels, and when she catches sight of Lucifer, her expression darkens, her body tensing.

“Lucifer,” she spits, her voice shaking with barely-repressed fury.

Amenadiel quickly rushes off to the nursery with Charlie, throwing Lucifer a _good-luck-with-that_ expression as he goes. Linda jumps to her feet, holding out an appeasing hand. “Maze—”

Maze ignores her, striding aggressively toward Lucifer, her boots thumping with each quickening step. With no hesitation, she fists her hands in his shirt and yanks him to his feet, dragging his face down to hers to glare right into his eyes.

“What did you do?” she hisses, teeth bared.

“Mazikeen, unhand me,” Lucifer growls, the words imbued with all the authority and power of the King of Hell. From the corner of his eye, he sees Linda backing away from him, her eyes wide. She presses herself up against the wall, instinctively fleeing the oppressive wave of hostility emanating from him.

Maze drops her hands, but her gaze is still sharp. She takes a step closer, crowding into his space, and his hands flex in anticipation of an attack. He suppresses the urge to strike.

“You did this to her.”

“I would never do something so vile,” Lucifer protests, his lip curling in disgust. “How dare you?”

But Maze shakes her head, taking a step back and pointing an accusing finger at him. “Someone knew about her. Someone from Hell came here and did this to her. You think this is a coincidence? This is an attack on _you_.”

One fist flashes out, too fast to follow; Lucifer stumbles backward, rocked by the sudden blow. He raises a hand to his cheek, wincing as his fingers graze the bruise already swelling there.

Maze advances on him, her mouth set in a firm line. “Someone knew she could be used to hurt you. Who did you tell, Lucifer?”

She swings to strike him once more. This time, he catches her fist in one hand, slamming his other palm into her sternum and sending her crashing to the floor. He follows her down, planting a knee into her chest and catching her wrists in a bone-grinding grip, forcing her hands to the floor. She struggles beneath him, breathing heavily, muttering a stream of curses under her breath.

“Stop this, Maze,” Lucifer warns her. “I told no one in Hell about the Detective. And you should bloody well know better than to think I ever would.”

Some of the fight leaves her, but she narrows her eyes at him. “Then who did?”

He sighs and stands up, releasing her from his hold. The menacing aura rolling off him in waves finally melts away.

Linda peels herself off the wall, then takes a deep breath and reclaims her armchair. Maze drags herself into a sitting position and leans against the couch, then crosses her arms, looking up at him with an inquisitive head tilt. Lucifer holds out his hand to her. She rolls her eyes at the gesture, but allows him to help her to her feet anyway.

“Most likely, it was Dromos,” Lucifer says, settling down on the couch once more. “Enough time passed between when I commanded him and his allies back to Hell and when I arrived there myself. He could have informed any number of his friends that the Devil’s weakness is a human.”

His brow furrows as a memory surfaces of Chloe walking into the Mayan that eventful night.

_You need to leave, Detective,_ he’d said to her, unable to hide the panic in his voice at the thought of her seeing his monstrous side again.

_I know. I make you vulnerable,_ she’d replied, and he’d been surprised, as he always was, that her first concern was for his safety.

“She even spoke of her effect on me, right out loud in front of him,” Lucifer mused. “Dromos wasn’t the brightest, but he was no fool. He could have figured it out.”

Linda and Maze share a wordless glance.

“ _Was_ no fool?” Maze repeats, a sly smile curling on her lips.

Lucifer’s jaw tightens as he nods. “Was.”

“I’m sorry I missed it,” Maze says wistfully, closing her eyes with a pleased little hum, as if imagining the renegade demon’s final screams.

Linda clears her throat. “Anyway,” she says, steering them back to the original conversation. “Lucifer, before Maze interrupted, you asked me a question.”

“Yes,” Lucifer says, turning his gaze back to the doctor. “Why did none of you seek my assistance?”

Maze rolls her eyes at him, folding her arms defensively. “If someone’s using Decker as bait to get to you, the last thing we’re gonna do is bring you here and give them exactly what they want.”

Lucifer glares at her, balling his hands into fists against his thighs. A spark of fire blooms in his eyes. “Did you ever stop to think that you might be risking her life by not reaching out to me?”

“You know Chloe wouldn’t want us dragging you into a dangerous situation,” Maze retorts.

“And you know what I'm willing to do to keep her safe!” Lucifer snarls.

Maze throws her hands in the air. “Yes, I do!” She glares at him, her eyes bright and fierce, heedless of the hellfire in his gaze. “You have zero concern for your own safety when she’s in danger. So no, I didn’t summon you, because I was trying to protect you!”

“I’m not the one who needed your protection, Maze,” Lucifer hisses, gesturing pointedly at the door to the guest bedroom, and she blanches at his accusatory tone.

_Lucifer, stop,_ a small voice in his head whispers. It sounds an awful lot like Chloe's pleading tone, when she would try to talk him down after he got too aggressive with a suspect.

“This is getting us nowhere,” says a frustrated voice beside him. Lucifer hadn’t even noticed Linda getting up from her chair again, and only now does he register the warmth of her small hand on his shoulder, carefully attempting to calm him.

Lucifer takes a deep breath. In Hell, he'd had no need for things like patience and restraint. Keeping the throne and maintaining control required a certain ruthlessness. Now, he finds it hard to squash the screaming instincts demanding he punish _someone_ for the Detective's condition; the sooner the better.

But Linda is right. Arguing with Maze won’t help Chloe. They need to focus on figuring out what happened and fixing it, not blame each other for allowing it to happen in the first place.

“Thank you, Doctor,” Lucifer says. Linda gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze before sitting back down.

“Maze, did you find any leads?” she asks.

Maze glares at Lucifer for a moment longer, then heaves an exaggerated sigh and throws herself onto the couch beside him.

“Decker was at the library again,” she says. “The librarian saw her talking to some student. She left pretty quickly after he did, apparently.”

“Did she recognize the student?” Linda asks.

Maze snorts. “That’s what I asked her. She got bitchy with me. Said she can’t be expected to know the names of every person who comes through the building.”

But a smile plays at the corner of her mouth, and Lucifer knows that expression all too well. “So what was his name?” he asks.

“Henry Coleman,” Maze answers primly.

Lucifer raises an eyebrow at her. “And how fares the librarian?”

Maze shrugs. “She’ll be fine. Might need some therapy first, though. Or religion.”

But Linda frowns, standing abruptly from her seat to dig her laptop out from under a pile of patient files on her kitchen table.

“I know that name,” she says, typing _Henry Coleman_ into a Google search. “I just read it somewhere…”

She falls silent, and Lucifer jumps up, rounding the couch to stand behind the doctor, leaning over her shoulder to look at the search results.

“What’s up?” Maze asks, half-turning in her seat to keep them in her line of sight. “Is the kid famous or something?”

“No,” Lucifer says flatly, scanning the news article on the laptop screen. “He’s dead.”

“He died just a few days ago,” Linda adds, her voice suddenly high and trembling. “Is this… another possession?”

“It appears so, Doctor.”

Lucifer straightens up and catches Maze’s eye. He jerks his head toward the guest bedroom door, and she nods.

As Maze steps into the bedroom, Lucifer turns to Linda, placing his hand on her shoulder in what he hopes is a soothing gesture.

“Why don’t you go see to Charlie,” he suggests, his voice soft. “Maze and I can handle things from here.”

Linda grips his hand, a silent _thank you,_ and hurries away toward the nursery. Lucifer waits until he hears the gentle rumble of Amenadiel’s voice and Charlie’s burbling laugh before he follows Maze into the bedroom.

Chloe lies in the same position on the bed as she did when he first arrived hours ago. The sun has finally set, and the only light in the room comes from the small table lamp beside the bed.

Maze sits in the chair, so Lucifer settles himself next to the Detective, careful not to touch her.

She’s so pale, his Detective, her breathing so shallow. At this moment, she seems more like a wax figure, an empty husk of skin and bone instead of a living human.

The thought brings forth a memory from the first days of his return to Hell, and Lucifer sucks in a sharp breath.

“What is it?” Maze asks. She flips her knives in her hands, impatient to take action, eager to hunt down and destroy the demon responsible for possessing Henry Coleman and doing _this_ to Chloe.

The idea forming in Lucifer’s mind is almost too horrible for words. He gazes down at his Chloe, a lump in his throat and a terrible heaviness around his heart.

“I don’t think she’s in there anymore,” Lucifer says. His voice is nearly inaudible, and his fists grip the bed sheets far too tightly. The sound of ripping fabric surprises him. He quickly loosens his hold on the sheets, smoothing the rumpled, torn sections and making a mental note to replace them before he goes back to Hell.

“What does that mean?” Maze demands. Her hands go still, the sharp edges of her knives gleaming in the low lamplight.

Lucifer briefly closes his eyes, steadying himself. “When I first returned to Hell, it was chaos. More so than usual. Multiple factions were at war over the empty throne. My sudden reappearance did nothing to dissuade them.”

He pauses, remembering those first years of his return. How the flagstones of the castle courtyard became sticky and stained with the blood of countless demons as he doled out punishments—to Dromos and his lackeys, to those who plotted to take his throne, to those who refused to acknowledge his sovereignty.

Maze nods at him, a silent encouragement to continue.

“Many remained loyal to me, though, and they brought me word of those who rebelled against my rule. Sometimes they were just rumors, other times they were more substantial.”

He shifts his gaze to Chloe, wanting to touch her, terrified of hurting her. Her vertebrae poke through the thin fabric of her shirt in sharp relief. He imagines her lying like this for the rest of her life, wasting away quietly until death comes to claim her, and a lump forms in his throat.

“There was talk of a group that met in secret. They had created something—a device of some sort, or a potion, none of my informants knew for sure—that could remove a living soul from its body, while still maintaining the link between them.”

Maze furrows her brow. “Why?”

Lucifer’s eyes narrow. “I don’t know. And I did my best to find out. But nothing ever came of it. And then other matters required my attention. So I just... dismissed it.”

_And now the Detective is paying the price for my ignorance,_ he doesn’t add. But perhaps Maze had been right, earlier.

Perhaps he did do this to Chloe.

“So this demon that possessed the dead kid might have been part of this secret, soul-stealing group, and now they’ve got Chloe’s soul,” Maze summarizes, in her characteristically blunt fashion.

Lucifer nods. The heaviness in his chest intensifies, and a swell of restless despair threatens to tear its way through him. He had sacrificed his life here on Earth to keep his loved ones safe, and it had been for nothing. His foolish, upstart denizens had risen up and come after the Detective, and he hadn’t even _noticed_.

A pair of impatient fingers snaps in front of his eyes, and Lucifer startles, his hand flashing up instinctively to bat away the impending threat. Mazikeen rolls her eyes at him.

“You’ve got your sad, broody face on,” she huffs. “Blame yourself later, Lucifer. Or don’t, because sitting around feeling guilty won’t change or fix anything here. Useless emotion, remember?”

The corner of Lucifer’s mouth quirks up. It’s not quite a smile, but that ache inside him lessens somewhat.

“I have missed you, Maze.”

She scoffs at that, but a pleased smirk flashes across her face. “Well, no one else knows how to deal with your dramatic ass like I do. Now, are we gonna go find these bastards or what?”

“Yes.” Lucifer takes one last look at Chloe, imagines her eyes opening, alive and whole once more. He would give anything to save her, to make that imaginary moment a reality.

_I won’t let you down again, Detective,_ he promises.

**Author's Note:**

> Fic title taken from the lyrics to "Lemon to A Knife Fight" by The Wombats.  
> Thanks for reading! <3


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